


Turning

by fresne



Category: Superman Returns (2006)
Genre: Gen, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-20
Updated: 2006-07-20
Packaged: 2017-10-05 21:11:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fresne/pseuds/fresne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A ficlet based off of the Alex Ross painting floating to the side and the end of every Superman movie ever (okay, so not the 1940s serials, but you know, he's floating above the earth. That bit.) I've read it before, I hope to read it again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turning

**Author's Note:**

> [Podcast](http://fresne.podbean.com/mf/play/evtiz/turning.mp3)
> 
>  
> 
> The following inspiration for this work and inspiration for my dialogue, where I am not directly quoting, because apt quotes are cool:  
> Paintings of Alex Ross

She's turning away. Twenty-seven miles every second. The blink of an eye.

He doesn't blink. Gazes down at her as she nestles in a wool coat of night. Deep pockets and sequin strings of lights twinkling like stars.

The stars twinkle back, but he has his back to them. They're cold. Dead. A graveyard of comets and crystal. Nothing but dust.

He looks down at her and listens to her murmurs and sighs.

He can hear a sparrow fall. A constant mourning chorus of chirps and calls. Like the sound of an old box spring that squeaks with every move. Dipped and old and annoying. Keeping a restless boy awake. Jacob's Ladder staring at the stars on the ceiling. Wishing. Longing. Until he froze in Solitude. Until he went into the black and the only sound was the rust of his own voice and the universe's crackled call.

Now, he doesn't sleep. Like a childish thing that he put aside when he became a man. Picking up faith and hope and love instead. Charity.

Now, he watches and waits until the sun slips glowing arms over her curves.

He soaks in the light.

Below, she throws off her coat. Blue and green and brown and white and somewhere, in a wind worn barn floating in a sea of grain, a woman is milking a cow in the dark. Her heart as steady as the rhythm of her hands. And somewhere, in a house perched by a sea, there's a woman standing on a porch inhaling coffee and smoke and the morning. And somewhere, there's a boy in a bed that doesn't squeak, not even a little. He is dreaming of colorful coats and sheaves of grain and fatted calves and Captain Crunch.

His mother calls. The day calls. The sun sings.

And he falls like a sparrow, in a rush of wind and morning and light. Until he skims the blue water with his fingers and like a bird in the sky, he spirals up into the dawn.

**Author's Note:**

> If after reading my fiction here, you would like to read more about me and my writing check out my profile.


End file.
